Bullets
by DeusBex
Summary: Tweek loses everything in the aftermath of a shooting.
1. Prologue

Author's Update:

 _When I started writing my previous South Park fan-fiction, 'Trick Or Tweek', it was just supposed to be a one-shot (or at best a few chapters) inspired by the Halloween season and the then latest 'Tweek X Craig' episode. However, as I started writing, I realised that I was really enjoying it - much more than I ever anticipated, in fact. I soon decided to write a swift conclusion to that story and begin work on this, which will be a full novel-length story. It is a sequel to 'Trick Or Tweek', but since all the events of that story are recapped (in greater detail than the original ever went into as well) it isn't necessary reading beforehand. So, with that said, I hope you enjoy 'Bullets'._

* * *

Prologue:

The leather upholstery of Token's new car is surprisingly comfortable - even for however ridiculously expensive I'm sure it is. It's a dark beige colour, almost brown even, and you can tell from just looking that it's expensive. Whereas a cheap hatchback has chairs made from some ugly childproof material, a rough velvet of sorts that's usually black so as to never show washed-out vomit, spilled drinks or whatever else the little brats can throw at it, this car is anything but child-friendly with its easily damaged seats. I'm honestly still surprised that his parents, rich as they undeniably are, bought him such an expensive first car. After all, with us being only sophomores, none of us are what you'd call 'experienced drivers'. In fact, we're all either learners like Craig or not driving at all like Clyde and I. Only Token, the oldest of our group, has an actual license yet. Still, having a car has its benefits, like not having to stand outside in the snow every winter's morning whilst you wait for the school bus, which all too often runs late as if they actually want you to catch a cold. Personally, I think they do, but then I'm paranoid about such things. I always feel like people are out to get me: classmates, parents, teachers, disease. That last one in particular is something I hate, especially since it seems that I'm unfairly ill far more often than most, but that's enough. I'm rambling.

Token's sitting at the front, in the driver's seat naturally, tapping away at the steering wheel as tunes blast out from the radio. It's an expensive sound system, like everything else in this car, but that doesn't stop the music from sounding like trash. Too much bass and female vocals, which I'm sure can't actually be achieved without auto-tune, make for the typical pop garbage. I sigh, quietly to myself, and push my face against the cold window. It stings, a tingle of frost shooting down my entire body, but I like it. Feeling something is always good. Too often, I feel nothing. It isn't depression exactly, though I hear that's what it's like, rather an anxiety so strong that I just shut down emotionally. My mind goes AWOL and I twitch. Amongst my friends and school peers, I've actually become known for it and 'spaz' is therefore just one of the many unappealing nicknames I've been given.

Sighing again, I suddenly become self-conscious. My friends don't need to know that I'm bored senseless, that I'm actually not feeling too good, or that if it were up to me I wouldn't be here right now. They're trying to be nice. They don't need me being a 'downer'. However, I can't help it. This is, or at least was, supposed to be a special day - not simply because it's Halloween. Outside the car window, leaves twirl majestically like ballerinas after being shot into the air by the force of the car ploughing over them. There's a hint of frost in the air, although it has yet to snow, and children are running down the streets in their costumes. One costume in particular catches my eye: a spaceman. The kid wearing it is no more than seven, an upside down goldfish bowl adorning his head as he carries a toy laser gun at the hip like some space-age cowboy. He reminds me of the hulking beast besides me; the very hulking beast whom I have been infatuated with - dare I say, almost obsessed - for some years now. Craig Tucker, my boyfriend, is sat besides me in his trademark blue jacket and black jeans. A yellow puffball sits atop a matching woolly hat, kind of like the capping star on a Christmas tree (a thought which always makes me smile), from which a jet black fringe peeks slightly out the front. He's tall, around six foot I think, and has the most mesmerising, sea blue eyes.

"What are you laughing at?" His question sounds monotone, as usual. Ever since we were kids, he has always been the most cynical and stoic amongst us, often prone to flipping people off with a crude gesture that I both detest and love at the same time. Perhaps that love, even for what would otherwise be an unattractive characteristic, is how I know my feelings for him are real and not just some 'phase'.

"N-n-nothing," I stammer out. I'm nervous, but not in a bad way. See, there's the bad kind of nervousness: anxiety. It's like a rat gnawing away at your mind, making you more illogical by the second, until you're just a small, ignored, helpless crumb on the floor. With Craig though, it's like butterflies. They're flying in my stomach, which has become a conservatory for them since I met him: a hot, sweaty room filled with beautifully exotic plants and butterflies.

It's easier to point, so I do that, and it isn't long before we're casting nostalgic smirks at each other in light of the sweet costume. That smile is something I alone get to truly see, for this giant is like a dried prune. Only I, the one person who'll bite into him, gets to reach the soft insides.

"I... l-love you," I force out, tugging painfully at my hair as I so often do for comfort in nervous times. Our hands soon meet in the centre of the car's back bench of seats, which is vacant and allows them to wander playfully. One of his reaches my knee, then slowly begins to tiptoe upwards, first towards my thigh and then towards my groin. "Stop," I chuckle, casting his hand away. "You p-pervert!"

"You think that I forgot what day it is? It's," he begins, before I interrupt him with the answer: our anniversary. My heart swells with elation at the realisation that not only has he remembered, but that (if his current facial expression is anything to go by) he has plans too, and soon enough all previous thoughts of boredom or disappointment are banished from my mind.

 **. . .**

Our destination is the woodland which, along with the snow-topped mountains, surround South Park on all sides like a security blanket against outsiders. As the road ends and we hop out the car, I study those exact mountains. Despite seeing them everyday, though admittedly from a farther distance, their impact is no less impressive. I stand perfectly still, my mouth almost agape and my mind transfixed on the beauty of nature surrounding me. Leaves, a beautiful concoction of every imaginable shade of orange, are scattered across the ground and crunch satisfyingly underfoot. There is the soft whistle of wind too, as it meanders gently through the trees, which dance in reaction.

"Earth to Tweek," chuckles Clyde, the stereotypical 'jock' of our group. He's sporty, even going so far as to dress in the burgundy varsity jacket of the high school sports team and cut his hair short in an almost militaristic style. His remarks drag me back to reality, as I realise that the other guys are struggling to unload duffel bags and compacted-down tents whilst I daydream over nature, and I rush to join them. There's a twinge of pain as I pull, slightly too hard, on my hair. Sadly, it's my only coping mechanism, out here in the (almost) middle of nowhere, without the caffeine that normally soothes my feelings of anxiety. The thought of a piping hot coffee, preferably black, makes me nearly drool. My mouth is flooded with saliva and, running up to Craig in a fit of anticipating giggles, I plant the sloppiest kiss imaginable on his cheek.

"Tweeeeeek," he moans, dropping the camping supplies with a loud thud (I sincerely hope there was nothing too fragile in that duffel bag), and glaring at me with a not-so-serious but still annoyed scowl. I know what this means. I run.

"Gah! C-C-Craig," I scream as my legs push, fast as they can, to get away from him. He's chasing after me, his longer legs taking leaping strides and kicking a flurry of leaves up into the air. They obscure my view, but I can see Token and Clyde behind us, rolling their eyes as they hop back into the car for a seat to wait for us. They, or at least Token being the 'smart-ass' (that's how Cartman always put it) he is, knows that splitting up in a woods is dangerous. It's safer for them to wait here, for us to have a known point to return to, and that comforts me enough to run ahead into the dense trees. I can lose the hulking beast in there.

However, it's no good. Craig's longer legs carry him, like a cheetah after its prey, and within mere seconds he is right on my heels. Thwack! One rugby tackle later and, suddenly, the six foot monster is on his knees, straddling me at the waist. I look pleadingly into his eyes. Those deep blue eyes, which glisten with such an intensity that they may as well be spotlights, have a hunger in them. Powerlessly trapped beneath him, his hands begin to drift. A finger runs up my arm, tracing along the fine blond hairs there, and towards my face to caress a cheek endearingly. Then, with that hunger still not sated, his tongue bursts into my mouth and sets about exploring every orifice. I don't fight back, instead reciprocating the warmth which emanates from his body by moaning, subconsciously and almost uncontrollably. My throat produces sounds that even I myself don't recognise, but they only add to our shared arousal. I can feel the yearning muscle in Craig's jeans, pushing and throbbing through the thick denim, and a grin plasters itself across my face.

 **. . .**

"There lived a man, happy but unfulfilled. He had a seemingly perfect life: the perfect job, the perfect house, and the perfect family. However, he wanted more. It always felt like something, a hole in his heart that couldn't be filled, was missing. One day, on his way to work at the office, he came across a homeless beggar on the street. He normally paid them no attention, or at best gave them a few dollars before walking on, but for some reason he found himself stopping for this one."

We're sat around a fire, which crackles soothingly as Token tells a ghost story, but I'm not really listening. I hate ghost stories, so I decide to study my surroundings instead. The orange and red hues of the fire seem perfectly autumnal, illuminating the faces of the friends sat around me, and I cling to Craig's hand tightly for comfort. Our spot is in an opening, where the dense trees fortunately thin out enough to make camp, and opposite a still lake. The water is frozen at the edges where it meets dry land: yet another sign of the impending winter. Above, stars litter the night sky like candles on a birthday cake. How old must the universe be to warrant so many?

"The beggar gave him a key, an ordinary-looking bronze key. However, as the beggar soon explained, it wasn't ordinary. 'This key is special. If you find the door it unlocks, then you will have everything you could ever need or want. It is a key to happiness. Behind it, there lives a family who will help you. The wife in particular gets lonely whilst the man of the house is away at work, so take it. You look like a man in need of some pleasure, and she can help you, like she helped me.' At first, the man ignored the key and went about his daily life. Curiosity soon overwhelmed him though and he became obsessed."

Buzz! Buzz! I shoot back with such force that I almost fall off the log which Craig and I are sharing, but fortunately he grabs me by the scruff of my collar just in time. I'm shaking, terrified, and feel like a panic attack could set in at any moment. The others are looking at me as though I'm insane. After all, it was just a phone. Clyde is rummaging around in his pocket for it, raising a hand to excuse himself and walking off for some privacy. 'When things go south, breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth' is what one of my therapists taught me. Reciting it repeatedly in my mind, I begin to calm down - just enough to sit still on the log.

"Everyday, he would search for the door which the key opened, moving from house to house across the town. When he stopped showing up for work, he lost his job. When he stopped showing up for dinner, he lost his wife. When he stopped showing up for birthdays, he lost his kids. The divorce was quickly finalised and the man went to collect his belongings. As the only house left in town which he hadn't tried the key in, he inserted it into the keyhole. It clicked. They found his body a few days later, drowned in the nearby river, his lifeless hand still clutching the very key that had forsaken him."

 **. . .**

I can't sleep; probably because of Token's freaking ghost stories. I just keep tossing and turning, waking whenever I do so happen to shut my eyes for a few minutes. Instead, I admiringly watch the teen sleeping next to me whom, without any clothes as he slumbers, I can examine fully. His jet black hair is an adorable mess, tufts shooting off in every imaginable direction, and his fringe partially obscures those beautiful blue eyes. A thin line of hair runs teasingly from his navel down into a pair of tight boxer-briefs, which leave very little to the imagination and send my blood pumping downwards, until the lustful muscle is screaming for release. Desperate, but not wanting to awake Craig, my hand drifts south and, as I feel the heat of it, I groan - a little too loud. Crap!

"T-Tweak...what," he murmurs, eyes fluttering open.

"Gah! Pressure! I'm s-s-sorry!"

"It's not midnight yet. There's still time for one last celebration, " he remarks smoothly with a coy smile, looking down to catch me in the act.


	2. Prologue II

Author's Update:

 _After 'Trick Or Tweek', I know that some of you are eager to find out what happens next, which is why I decided to release the Prologue in two parts - so as to have something releasable for you guys ASAP. I hope you enjoyed the first part of the Prologue and, now, here's the second. Going forward, I'm hoping to release around a chapter per week, though naturally I can't make any promises. After all, I'd rather it take a month per chapter if that is what becomes necessary to maintain a quality that I'm happy with and that you guys enjoy reading. Should that happen frequently though, then I might split chapters into halves like I have done here with the Prologue. We'll see._

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Prologue II:

Our hands are exploring each other, caressing cheeks, hair, buttocks, and much, much more. We don't talk; we don't have to. The groans and moans, noises which we never before realised our throats could produce, are sufficient enough to gauge each other's pleasure from. We've been together years, but this feels better and better every single time we do it. My tongue is exploring his mouth, like a cave explorer checking in every orifice, whilst he thrusts his groin upward so that I can feel the throbbing blood-filled muscle through his underwear. It isn't long before that thin layer of cotton/spandex is discarded, tossed to the other side of the tent without a care in the world, and then the fun truly begins. Our tent is claustrophobic, though it doesn't stop him positioning his body, lean and so much more mature than when we met (but still with that cuteness I had fallen in love with, back in the fourth grade), atop of me. His hair is a mess, as is mine I'm sure, yet nothing can distract us as we set to work. I can feel it coming. The build-up is so intense, more so than even the best thriller novels, and it isn't long until... boom!

Craig collapses onto me, his chest pressing firmly against mine, as we both heave from the exhaustion. My lungs kick into overtime, working hard to deliver mouthful after mouthful of much needed oxygen to my body, and I feel almost faint - as though I had taken drugs. He lifts an arm, such that I can feel his hairy pits tickling against my bare skin, and runs a hand through my blond hair. The sticky result is still there, oozing down our chests and stomachs like a slow meandering river, but neither of us are bothered. We just lie there, sighing contently and staring longingly into each other's eyes. Words cannot, no matter how much I've tried, do justice to those wondrous blue pearls.

Buzz! Buzz! Fortunately, I don't freak out this time at the sound of a phone ringing. It's Craig's - not mine. I watch as he slides over to the other side of the small tent, where duffel bags containing our stuff lay, and then use this time to clean myself up.

"It's Token," he explains. "Just letting us know that he's going to go get Jimmy. His parents must be letting him come, after all."

Jimmy's a 'cripple', which at first might sound a harsh way of putting it, but it's not like he's ever let it hold him back. He's completely mobile with the use of crutches and is, as he puts it, a 'handi-capable' individual. After all, he's won numerous talent contests and even the Special Olympics once. As the fifth member of our little group, he's always struck me as a decent enough guy - if a bit too competitive sometimes. Sports and competitions are something I'll never understand, maybe because they just trigger my anxiety.

 **. . .**

We're already cooking breakfast, or rather food that we're eating at what should be breakfast (I'm not sure if marshmallows and sausages can truly classify as a 'breakfast' meal), when Token returns with Jimmy in tow. With Halloween now over, it's a cold November morning - even more so than yesterday. Dark clouds loom in the distance, likely signalling a downfall of snow in the near future, and leaves crackle with frost. The woods around us, meanwhile, are lifeless without even the sound of birds or wind. In fact, if not for the crackling fire and our voices, we'd be sat in dead silence. It's unnerving.

Craig and I are sat on the very same log as last night, sharing a thin picnic blanket that we've instead converted to using for warmth, whilst the others are either on the floor or a fold-out camping chair. Jimmy's sat opposite me, dressed in a thick yellow sweatshirt, which looks delightfully warm. He sure isn't shivering, chattering teeth and all, like the rest of us. Clyde's next to him, sat cross-legged on the floor, prodding morbidly at a dropped marshmallow as though this were some scene from Stand By Me. He seems 'off', as though something's wrong, but I don't want to interrogate him. He's always been someone whom we've never questioned much about their personal life. Back in the fourth grade, there were plenty of rumours flying about: only having one testicle, having a colostomy, and so on. I'm not sure what was just childhood meanness and what was actually true.

"So, g-g-guys, do you like fish s-s-sticks?"

Not this - again. Not this same freaking joke; the same joke that Jimmy's been telling forever. Sure, at first anyway, it was clever. However, those 'fish sticks' are becoming stale and nobody likes food past its expiration date. Besides, without trying to sound like an 'ableist' jerk, his stammer totally ruins the delivery.

"No, but Craig and Tweek do," sneers Token. He's Roman Catholic, like the rest of us (apart from Jimmy), but unlike the rest of us he seriously believes in the hateful crap they spiel at church. He's a good friend, most of the time, though when we're together as a couple it's all too often clear that he doesn't fully approve. There's a disapproving scowl here and there, sometimes like today even so much as a rude remark, and once he even refused to allow us to share a room whilst sleeping round his house. Craig and I (at my insistence) have tried to be understanding, sympathetically acknowledging that couples like us are uncommon in such a small mountain town, but our hopes that he would someday understand aren't coming to fruition. After all, it's been years now since we started dating. I sigh in sheer disappointment.

"What the fuck is your problem? Seriously," growls Craig in a husky voice, far lower in pitch than his usual nasal-sounding voice. He means business. "I've tried to be nice. You're lucky Tweek is so forgiving. If it were up to me, we wouldn't put up with your shit!"

"My shit? You... You're the ones with shit on your dicks. Yeah, we heard you last night! Why would you even do that here?"

"Ha! That's rich. Like you haven't screwed your dumb bimbo girlfriend, Nichole, when we were in the very same building."

"That's different... I'm not gay. Neither's Clyde or Jimmy. We don't need to hear tha-"

Crack!

 **. . .**

Token's jogging back to his car to leave, clutching his jaw as blood oozes out of his mouth in a thin trail down his chin, and Clyde and I follow him in a vain attempt to convince him otherwise. However, it's no good. We watch as he thrusts himself violently into the driver's seat and slams the car into reverse. Within mere seconds, nothing but the faint dust kicked up by the spinning tires remains. I cough into my hand and spin on my heels, only to stop dead when I realise that I can't go back to camp - not yet. I can't look at Craig right now, after what he did, and I just need a little time to myself. All of that violence, that blood, was frightening. It terrifies me deeply to think that Craig, even if not without provocation, has the capacity for that in him.

Almost as though he's psychic, or perhaps just very good at reading my face, Clyde gives a knowing nod before jogging off in the direction of camp and leaving me all alone. I find a flat patch of grass, fortunately dry and flattened from where the car had been parked atop it, and lie down. It's cold, freezing even, and I'm shivering as I intensely watch the clouds above float by. There's one which looks almost like a rocket, complete with a domed-top and porthole windows as it blasts off into the stratosphere with a long trail of smoke behind it, and next to it there is a guinea pig. In all of them, I see something of Craig: woolly hats, Red Racer cars, and so on. Trying to escape him, to purge him from my mind for just a short while, seems futile.

"Tweek," comes a monotonous voice, right on cue. It's Craig, of course. "Tweek... Are you okay? What Token said wa-"

"Gah! I d-d-don't care about Token. I c-c-care about you, Craig, and if you keep doing this crap... It frightens m-me. What if you get expelled from school? What if, next time, the police get involved?"

I'm crying, rolling over onto my stomach so as to droop my head into my arms, and closing my eyes to shut out the rest of the world. A hand, Craig's, brushes against my shoulder and back soothingly, but it doesn't help. Does he genuinely not realise what he does to me and that, after everything we've now been through, I can't live without him? If he were to be taken away from me, I would die.

 **. . .**

Bang! We're running, fast as our legs can carry us, back towards camp. My chest is heaving, as the lungs within work on overtime to supply my already aching muscle with oxygen. Running is certainly not a skill of mine. Bang! There's that sound again. We don't know what it is, but overhead flocks of birds teem in desperation to escape it, which only fills my heart with dread. Craig leads ahead, sweat pouring down his brow, and for once he looks almost as anxious as I do. The camp is ahead now, within our sight, and I can see the crackling fire in the distance - an undisturbed beacon of safety within this wild frontier. Next to it, someone is standing, dressed in jeans and a burgundy varsity jacket. It's Clyde!

Except, something is wrong. There's a glint of silver in his hand, which catches my eye briefly before another bang pierces my ears, and then there's just silence. Time seems to slow around me. I can see Craig's mouth agape and his eyes widened in shock, whilst ahead on the floor there lies a teenage boy in a bloodied yellow sweatshirt. The world is spinning and my heart pounding, as though it could erupt from my chest at any given moment, but somehow I manage to follow Craig in rushing to Jimmy's side. There's blood everywhere. Jimmy's face is pale, almost like porcelain, and startlingly lifeless.

Suddenly, my vision is filled with a blindingly bright light. Bang! My hands are fumbling over my torso, feeling around in blind desperation, until they touch something wet. I can just make out the crimson red, as the shrieks of Craig flood my ear and the world goes black.


	3. Witness Statement

Author's Update:

 _With the Prologue now completed, the real story can begin. I hope you enjoy how 'Bullets' pans out and thanks to those of you who gave some very positive reviews to my previous story. I'm as excited as ever to continue writing this! The last chapter was delayed by a few days, firstly due to a heavy workload from classes, but also because of the Paris Attacks. I have a friend studying there, who actually lives only one metro stop away from where it all kicked off, and so I was too concerned to write that night. Fortunately, she's safe and I hope there won't be too many delays on future chapters. Also, for some reason, the cover art never seems to load properly, but I have set some. Sorry if you can't see it!_

* * *

Witness Statements:

It's been one week exactly since the events of Halloween, but we're no closer to real answers. Clyde disappeared, apparently running further off into the woods after I passed out, and Jimmy is still in the hospital. Selfish though it may sound, however, I've been more concerned with Craig than with anyone or anything else. He refuses to explain, no matter how much I prod, what exactly happened after anxiety had its way with me. I feel awful for leaving him, all alone, to handle the police and ambulances; just thinking about it makes my chest cringe in sympathetic pain. It's in the past though, so all I can do is hopefully make things up to him, and I've been trying hard to do just that. As if time will somehow make us forget seeing our friend being shot, we've both been given an authorised period of study leave: no school so long as we complete our classwork at home. With so much more time on our hands, Craig has effectively (albeit sadly only temporarily) moved in with me. My parents, being incredibly devoted to their work at the coffee shop as they are, haven't even noticed and today is no different in having the house once again to ourselves.

I'm downstairs in the kitchen, making a coffee for myself and some breakfast for Craig, whom I left sleeping peacefully upstairs. He's always been stoic, sure, but lately things have gotten worse. He barely talks at all! Perhaps, even though I subconsciously know it is ultimately futile, some kind gestures will help ease the situation. Breakfast is just that: a kind gesture, which today comes in the form of some scrambled eggs on toast. As I wait for the toaster to pop, I look out of the window and across the yard. A thin layer of snow has settled, almost like the sprinkles on a doughnut, across the grass and the windows are frosted such that the outside world seems to have a bluish tint. The sight alone makes me shiver, despite the full-blast heating inside, and acutely aware of my lack of clothing. Only an old pair of boxer-briefs, which are slightly too small (and thus revealing) after the latest teenage growth spurt, protects my modesty.

Pop! I immediately begin liberally scooping some scrambled eggs onto the lightly toasted bread, topping it off with ketchup, which rather amusingly we both have a 'thing' for. Ever since I was a little kid, my parents would always moan at me for putting too much of the red stuff on my fries, and I can distinctly remember a few food fights with fourth-grader Craig involving it too. Things were simpler, at one time in my life, like that. Back then, we could have food fights, play superheroes or villains, and our biggest concern was getting in trouble with our parents - not shootings. It seems unbelievably surreal to even think of it, to think I was involved in a 'shooting', but I was. I start to shake at just the thought, my anxiety kicking in yet again, and have to steel myself enough in order to continue dishing up breakfast.

Knock! Knock! The noise is sudden and piercing in the otherwise silent house. I shoot forward in surprise, fumbling with my hands as they struggle but fail to keep a grasp on the suddenly slippery ketchup bottle. It falls to the ground, pointed downwards like a harbinger of the apocalypse: the nuclear bomb, and deep red sauce oozes onto the floor with a squirt. Knock! It's the door.

"Gah! Pressure," I shout, pulling violently at my hair and ripping a small, thankfully unnoticeable clump out. Still practically naked, my eyes dart around the room and settle on a blanket, which I drape around myself like a cape before opening the front door to peek my head around. Almost instantly, I can feel the bitterly cold air gnawing away at my skin and I hope that whoever it is are quickly gone so that I can return to the warmth.

"Mister Tweak? I'm Sergeant Yates from the South Park Police Department. We're going to need you and your friend, a 'Craig Tucker', to come down to the station today to make statements. I was told I could find you both here?"

The man appears middle-aged, though it's hard to tell whether the wrinkles and sagging eyes are from age or simply tiredness, with slicked-back ginger hair and an old-fashioned moustache. He looks like the stereotypical 'hick' town Sheriff, a caricature if you will, but nevertheless I still nod politely and with a shaking hand take the piece of paper which he offers. It's crumpled and written in a near illegible handwriting. However, I can still make out a time for our 'appointment' and, after tucking it in the waistband of my underwear for temporary safekeeping, I meekly wave the officer off so that I can return to the kitchen.

Fortunately, my coffee has finished brewing; it's just what I need. I twirl the black liquid around in my personal cup, which is adorned with cartoon cat pictures and has my name written across the handle in permanent marker after my past paranoia of other people using it, and slowly sip away at it. The caffeinated beverage soothes my mind and, as I hop up onto the counter for a seat, I sigh in realisation that Craig's breakfast has gone cold in the time it took me to talk to the officer at the door. I grab a fork and decide to begin eating it myself, when suddenly there comes the sound of floorboards creaking obnoxiously loud above. Craig's awake.

 **. . .**

The six foot beast stands in the kitchen doorway, basking in the aptly bluish, wintry light of the opposite window and smirking knowingly as he catches sight of me. Such an expression from someone normally so deadpan means only one thing and it isn't long before I look down to gaze longingly at the yearning muscle in his underwear, which stretches the cotton/spandex fabric to its limits. Soon, our hands are exploring each other to the satisfaction of welcoming moans and said underwear is discarded as I perch myself atop the counter in anticipation. Both of our members are throbbing virulently, filled with primal desire.

Click! There's a flash of light, followed by the harsh sound of footsteps running, and in the corner of my eye I can briefly see the distinct purple shirt of none other than Token Black. The door slams shut, sending vibrations throughout the entire house, and then we're left in silence. Craig's brow twitches, his face scowling with that same look of disapproval as on Halloween night, and in preparation for the inevitable I slip back into my underwear. It feels cold, having been left on the lino flooring, and I shiver at its touch.

"That," he pauses, heaving out a mouthful of air as though it were poison to his lungs, and turns to look at me. "That fucker! Shit! How did he even get in here?"

"Uh... There w-was an o-officer... And I m-m-might h-have left the d-door open..."

"What!?"

"Gah! Pressure! Craig, just c-c-calm d-down!"

Craig clenches his fists, visibly clammy and sweaty from the sheer anger within him, at his sides and heads out through the kitchen doorway. There comes the sound of floorboards, presumably from the stairs, squeaking loudly. Within seconds, I can hear bags being packed - frantically, furiously, frustratingly.

 **. . .**

The police station is surprisingly large, given the otherwise small size of South Park itself, but disorganised. There seems to be very few members of staff and papers, as though we're back in the twentieth century and the days before digital records, are littered all over the place. Still, it's an improvement from the days of my early childhood, back when it was just Officer Barbrady alone; that guy could barely even read properly. I'm waiting, unattended or even supervised, outside of an office where I will soon be giving my statement. The walls are white, peeling from age, and the bottom half is covered in dated wood panelling. From inside, I can hear Craig (he went before me) talking. Him having angrily left earlier after Token caught us in the 'act', it's the first time I've heard his voice in hours - a rarity.

"It was Halloween night," began Craig, monotonous as ever. "We were camping... Tweek and I... gunfire... unconscious... bleeding..."

His words are muffled. I move closer to the door, trying to listen in, but to no avail.

"Tweek... worried..."

Suddenly, there comes the sound of sniffling. It's quiet at first, but soon becomes louder. What initially sounded like a cold, maybe even hay fever if it were a warmer day, twists menacingly into the unmistakable sound of sobbing. Cupping my ear to the door, which singes with coldness as it greets the bare skin of my earlobe, I pinpoint the exact source. There's no mistake. It's Craig!


	4. Interlude

Author's Update:

 _The last chapter was relatively short - at least by comparison to this chapter and the Prologue, which with both parts combined was over four thousand words. However, because of the significance of the events told, I felt that a short but dedicated chapter was necessary. It also took a very long time to write as I wanted to get it just right! With this chapter, aptly titled 'Interlude' for a reason, we're going to be taking a break from Tweek and flashing backwards in time. Don't worry though, because I can assure you that it nevertheless plays a fairly important part in the overall plot. If you enjoy this break from the main narrative, then let me know via reviews and I may write some more chapters like this. Enjoy!_

* * *

Interlude:

David Teelez is one of the oldest in his sophomore classes, already sixteen come late autumn and Halloween, with a stereotypically Latino complexion that is a rich creamy-brown colour and straight black hair which he occasionally styles with a slathering of hair gel. Often dressing simplistically in a white baseball tee with navy blue sleeves and charcoal grey chinos, he has little need to consciously try to be attractive. His pectoral muscles bulge, visibly pronounced in the relatively tight shirt, and the veins on his arms explode with an attractively vascular appearance. Meanwhile, his jawline is defined, sharp as a woodsman's axe, and covered in stubble. He'd come into manhood earlier than his peers and, along with the results of some years weightlifting, it visibly shows as the girls fawn desperately for his favour. Sadly, however, not everyone at school is quite so keen on him.

"It's 'Da-veed', you fat fuck," he cusses, slamming a fist into the chubby cheek of Eric Cartman: the school's resident neo-Nazi sociopath. There's a discomforting cracking noise as blood splatters across the floor like some abstract painting, oozing worryingly from the overweight teen's mouth, which almost immediately begins to discolour into a dark shade of purple.

"Mr Teelez," booms a voice, echoing down the long corridor which is lined on either side with old lockers that are somewhat rusted in places. It's the so-called 'Black Dahlia', derived from the mutilated murder victim and perhaps indicating just how disliked she is by her students. Her grey-black hair is long and flowing, but covered in knots which seemingly age her by ten years, and her scarlet red lipstick is at best tacky or at worst downright inappropriate. On more than one occasion, she'd been unflatteringly compared to a middle-aged prostitute who prowls the streets at night for some quick cash. "Are you picking on poor Cartman again? I thought I'd told you that the school takes a zero-tolerance approach to bullying."

As she approaches, the obese sociopath begins to play along with the false accusations - ever trying to spin a situation in his favour. A forced tear runs down his cheek as a childlike wail erupts from his throat, causing a look of sheer horror to plaster itself across the teacher's face. She goes to grab the young Latino's arm, probably to drag him off to the principal's office yet again, but is too slow as he instead jumps back, grabs his backpack which he had earlier put down in order to deal with Cartman, and then runs for the nearest fire exit. Sirens burst, automatically, into life as the door swings open with a thud and David is greeted by the cold mountain air. It almost burns his skin, which despite the season is still exposed as he wears just his baseball shirt, with a searing pain similar to that of holding an ice cube itself.

"Screw this shit," he sighs, deciding to skip classes for the remainder of the day. "Looks like I've got some time to myself..."

 **. . .**

"Welcome to this s-s-special Halloween showing of 'The Colorado S-S-Slasher'," came the sound of a lisping teenager, likely a high school drop-out with braces and awful acne working there for minimum wage, through the screen's tinny loudspeaker system.

The cinema is dark, naturally, with only the faint luminescence of 'Fire Exit' signs to the sides of the aisles providing some minimal lighting. David sits at the back, where he can go unnoticed and also put his feet up. He rests them on the headrest of the seat in front. His shoes, canvas (but not an expensive brand like Converse or Vans) and a matching shade of grey to his chinos, catch the light of the big screen upon which the pre-film commercials roll. The projector hums gently in the background and there's the faint creaking of the old chair, covered in red velvet that is typical for a cinema, as he shuffles and squirms to get comfortable.

"Uh, I need this," came a husky voice suddenly from a few seats to David's right. "I've been marking test papers all day."

It sounds familiar, so he carefully averts his gaze whilst trying to remain inconspicuous, and then gasps at the sight. He cups a hand to his face, stifling it, as he realises that the 'Black Dahlia' herself is here - in the very same cinema as he, who should right now be in a mathematics class. Fortunately, she hasn't noticed him, instead seeming far more preoccupied with her companion: a young man with scruffy blond hair and a fluorescent orange parka. She rests a hand on his knee and it is abundantly clear that, whomever he is, they're more than just a 'friend'. David seizes the opportunity to slip silently from his chair and shimmy along the aisle, in the opposite direction of the 'Black Dahlia' of course.

Crunch! Popcorn, rather ironically, pops underfoot and within seconds he has attracted sorely undesired attention.

"David? Is that y-"

"Crap!"

He runs. The nearby fire exit is light work for his muscular physique and he barges into it, flinging the door open with a thud and igniting the automatic fire alarms into life for the second time in one day. A small swarm of people begin to file out of the movie theatre, prompting him to move along before questions are asked, and he resumes into a light jog across the street.

Beep! The car tries to swerve, but it's too late, and he barely has time to gasp before the whole world fades to a foreboding blackness.

 **. . .**

David awakes on a stretcher, sprawled out in a somewhat compromising medical gown across some sterile white bedsheets, and immediately begins to examine his surroundings. He is evidently in a hospital, surrounded by medical equipment such as heart-rate monitors and other, more complex contraptions that he hasn't the faintest idea about. Minty green curtains enclose him on each side, offering some semblance of privacy, but nevertheless he can still clearly hear his neighbours. On his right, there's the sound of coughing - wheezing even. Even though he can't see the sickly individual, the Latino teenager imagines an elderly man wrapped in tubing as an equally old woman with fraying, greying hair sobs beside him. Hospitals always spur such depressing thoughts.

"It'll be okay," says someone to his left. They're behind the curtain, but their monotonous voice sounds oddly familiar. "It'll be okay."

Standing, the world at first begins to spin and his head throbs virulently as he reaches up to feel a small series of stitches across the right of his forehead, but he soon stabilises himself and manages to shamble over towards the curtain. Pulling it back, he slowly and cautiously peeks his head around - only to be greeted by a most horrific sight. Across yet another sterile white stretcher like his own, there lies yet another teenager, but unlike David this one is covered in the tubes and medical equipment that he had just previously imagined for some elderly man. It's a boy, dressed in a yellow sweatshirt and blue jeans, and across the segregated cubicle stands another teenager.

"Craig?"

There's silence. The lanky, six foot beast is paler than ever, still clad in his trademark blue jacket but without the hat, which he instead holds nervously in a pair of shaking hands. David didn't know him well, but enough to know that he had a reputation for being stoically deadpan, and that only made seeing him in such a state all the more shocking.

"The doctors... They say he might have damage... brain damage... permanent," he finally manages to stammer out, a series of mangled sentence fragments that are ultimately unnecessary. The facial expressions and the medical equipment, it all tells a thousand words to David, who finally takes a seat and prompts for Craig to do the same. "Clyde, he... gun... shot..."

 **. . .**

David and Craig, a seemingly odd-looking pair with the former a stocky weightlifting teenager and the latter a lanky cynic, sit on two pushed chairs opposite Jimmy's stretcher/hospital bed. They're the typical blue plastic ones you see in schools or hospitals, most likely because they're easy to wash down in the event of vomiting or diarrhoea, and incredibly uncomfortable. They squeak awkwardly with every slight movement too, but fortunately the pair are deathlike in their lack of movement. Craig sighs unhappily, resting his head against the muscular arm of David, feeling the Latino's bulging biceps under his cheek.

"Where's Tweek? Aren't you two a..."

"Yeah," he mumbles out, returning to a more monotonous tone now that his emotions have somewhat calmed. However, there's an undertone of bitterness. "And he's at home, sleeping. He passed out; it's his anxiety - again."

David isn't an expert on relationships, despite what his appearances may suggest to the contrary, but even he can tell something is wrong. Whatever it is, Tweek has his work cut out...


	5. The Gnomes

Author's Update:

 _After 'Interlude' and its focus on David Teelez, a relative newcomer to South Park first introduced in Season 19 who I have grown rather fond of already, it's time now to return to Tweek's POV and the main narrative. Before you begin reading, however, I need some reviews! If you're from Tumblr, then please create an account and favourite/follow/review my story. These all increase my standing in the site's rankings, meaning my story will be seen by more people, which is exactly what I want. I want exposure so that more people read and I get more feedback, with which I can improve as a writer. Many thanks!_

* * *

The Gnomes:

Too much pressure! The gnomes: they're everywhere, all around us as I sit at the plastic table and the officer opposite me growls with disapproval at my lack of cooperation. It isn't that I'm trying to be a pain, an annoyance, or to 'obstruct justice' as he puts, but I just can't stop twitching. My heart is pounding at a million miles per hour, faster than a cheetah chasing its prey, and my attempts to calm myself by placing my hands flat across the table are futile. The grey plastic material from which it is made, horribly sterile and devoid of personality like all furnishings in public buildings, is downright icy to the touch. When I do finally manage, a gnome hops onto the table and tries to stab my hand with a fork. His eyes are evil, brown but almost red like the Devil himself, and his white beard only masks a deviant smile.

"Gah! Stop, you fucker," I scream, shooting a hand across the table to swat away yet enough gnome, this one trying to set alight to the officer's hair. How can he be so blind as to not notice them? They're everywhere! Where is Craig when I need him? The gnomes don't dare show themselves when he's around.

"Mr Tweak," barks the officer sharply, prompting me to swiftly shoot back in my chair. Why is he angry? I just saved his life! "Please refrain yourself from further disruptions and answer my questions, else I'll have no choice bu-"

Smoke permeates my nostrils and, as I cast my eyes down, my vision is flooded with violent hues of orange and red. A group of gnomes look upwards, directly into my eyes with a menacing stare, and each carries a lit match. The weakening embers of each reflect perfectly off my widening pupils, such that the officer must surely notice, but instead he only casts me an incredulous look from across the table as I begin to scream. My foot is on fire! My foot is on fire! I can feel the rubber soles of my Converse shoes melting, the molten leftovers scalding my skin, whilst the fabric itself has ignited into a ball of flickering flames which travels slowly up my leg. A thin layer of denim is all that currently protects my precious skin and, as it weakens, I begin to kick randomly in the air, shaking my leg around in vain hope that the generated winds will somehow put the fire out. It's fruitless.

"Fire! Help me," I beg the officer, whom still has yet to react. I drop from my chair, knocking it over with a loud bang in the process, and begin to roll in the manoeuvre I had learnt from fire drills as a child. "Please!"

Thwack! Suddenly, the door to the interrogation room (or whatever it's actually called) flies open and smashes into the wall behind it, causing the room to vibrate loudly from the shock, as though it were somehow a person itself and reeling from an attack. It's Craig. Even whilst rolling on the floor, desperate to save myself from the flames, I can still make out his face. It's somewhat red, flustered perhaps from the heat, and sans a woolly blue hat. His hair is a mess; it appears he's been running his hand through it with tufts shooting off randomly in all directions.

"Tweek! Tweek," he begins to repeat my name, grabbing me by the shoulders and forcing me to remain still, but his words are muffled by the still burning flames that are now melting my skin away. I look down, past Craig who now straddles my hips in an attempt to pin me, and catch sight of my legs. They're grotesque, covered in blistering warts and peeling skin, which in parts reveals the bare muscle below itself. I scream. Are they not seeing this? I need a doctor!

"Tweek," continues Craig, sounding perfectly monotonous to all but I, who after all these years can distinguish his concern. He pulls me into his chest, hugging me tight in a heartfelt embrace, and slowly the world begins to normalise once again. I can feel my legs, normal and healthy once again, and without even looking I know that the gnomes are now gone. I'm safe, for now, with him here: my protector. "It's okay, Tweek. It's okay."

We both stand in unison, examining the bewildered officer sat behind the table, seemingly comatose and paralysed in place with shock. Words aren't needed for us to take our leave, as he casts a 'you can go' look at what must be an odd pair: a deadpan six-foot lanky beast and a gnomophobic blond with a (to strangers at least) frightening twitch. Craig collects his hat, which he had left in the corridor in a maddened frenzy to reach me swiftly, and then we walk calmly past reception to exit the building. It's colder outside, more so than even the bitterly chilly table of the interrogation room, and I immediately shiver at the icy touch of November's air. Across the street, children play innocently in a playground, their lives so tranquil that it makes me sick with envy. They don't have to attend police interviews! They don't have their best friend hospitalised! They don't get attacked by the gnomes! It's not fair.

"Why? Tell me why you do this all the time," sighs Craig with a sudden outburst, clearly disappointed. "Halloween was awful, but you passed out, and left me all alone to handle it. Now, there's this..."

"Craig, there w-were g-gnomes," I stammer out, nervously, for one rare moment feeling the bad kind of nerves around him - the gnawing rat, rather than the beautiful butterflies. "And they... They tried to kill me, dude!"

"Fuck the gnomes! This isn't about stupid garden gnomes that aren't even really there. This is about you and me: us. I'm sick of always cleaning up your mess! Have you ever thought that maybe I need some fucking support too? You weren't the only one there, when Clyde... did what he did..."

His voices trails off, monotonous as always but ending in a clearly saddened sigh, and he turns his back to me. With a flip of the middle-finger, he begins to walk away with big, purposeful strides. I don't go after him; I can't. My heart is racing once again, for the second time in just a few minutes, and I am stuck on the spot with my mouth agape. He's never done that, the finger, to me before - ever.

 **. . .**

Without Craig, life itself feels different - worse. The gnomes come, far more frequently too, and each time my reaction only worsens. I'm working a shift in my parent's shop, being a good son in helping out the family business for once I suppose, and trying to ignore them as they clamber away outside in a thankfully futile attempt to reach the doorknob. Even with two or three atop each other, climbing onto each other's shoulders, they're still far too short to reach the doorknob. Past them, outside, classmates whom I recognise by face only (don't ask me to recall names) scamper past joyfully. School, for which I'm still officially on a medically-approved 'study leave' period, must have just finished. There's Bebe: the friendly but somewhat randy popular girl, Kevin: the Star Wars nerd who is always decked out in appropriately branded clothing from Stormtrooper tees to Vans with Luke Skywalker's signature lightsaber pose on them, and everyone else who walks down this road to get home.

Ding! Ding! The bell rings, signalling that someone has entered the shop and disturbing me from my prying on fellow students. It's Kenny, dressed as always in his signature orange parka, which for once has its hood pulled back so that you can see his scruffy blond hair. However, whereas mine is messy for lack of effort, his is because of lack of even washing. After all, Kenny has a reputation for being somewhat disgusting: both physically and mentally. He's the school's resident pervert.

"Dude, guess who scored some pussy? Go on," he grins, smirking mischievously and already sharing way too much information for my personal comfort. He's like that; he has no inhibitions and shamelessly shares his sex life with pride, even to people like myself who at best class as lukewarm acquaintances and at worst enemies through his friendship with Cartman. It's a wonder how Kyle, Stan and him deal with that overweight sociopath. "Well, I did, and she's an older lady too - more experienced."

"Ewww" I vocally remark, jolting a laugh from him as he takes a seat at one of the tables. "What d-do you w-want, Kenny?"

"Well, since I hear you and Craig are no longer, I just wanted to let you know that I'm available for some casual fun. A guy's got to let it out somehow, am I right?"

The blond-haired pervert winks provocatively at me, whilst I simply stand there stunned and unable to formulate coherent words. Is he seriously soliciting me for a 'friends with benefits' experience? Besides, Craig and I aren't 'no longer', are we? It's just a difficult time for us.

 **. . .**

Kenny stands before me, naked from the waist down with only a slightly long parka covering his modesty, which just from the imprint on said coat I can tell to be considerably large and throbbing with sheer primal lust. He growls provocatively and then bites his lower lip to stifle a moan as one of his hands, grubby with dirt under the fingernails but nevertheless attractive for the surprising delicacy of its movement, reaches for the yearning muscle. I try to stand, to reach out and touch him, but he only pushes me back down onto the bed with his free hand.

"I want you to watch," he coos softly, teasingly, straddling himself across my stomach as he strokes slowly, playfully.

I gasp, sitting up in bed and launching into an uncomfortable coughing fit, which awakes me from my disturbing dreams. It's only been a few days, but already my mind wanders without Craig. Although I don't want it to be so, Kenny is partially right. Suddenly having no one to pleasure you, selfish and stereotypical 'hormonal teenager' though it may sound, is a difficult transition. However, it's not just the physical which I now lack. I miss the smell of peppermint on his lips, that stoic voice which is like a secret code only I can truly understand, and I miss those beautiful blue eyes. I need Craig.

"Gah," I murmur to myself, frustrated and feeling pressured, as I begin to vent it by smacking my head violently against the headboard. I haven't done it since I was a kid; I haven't had to, what with Craig always being there to care for me. Smack! Smack! Smack!


	6. An Orange Affair

Author's Update:

 _This chapter's coming in two parts, like the Prologue, and will be updated later!_

* * *

An Orange Affair:

"I c-can't believe I'm d-doing this," I sigh, disappointed in myself but knowing that Kenny of all people can keep a secret like this: one which, if revealed, would solidify my breakup with Craig as permanent. Why am I doing this? Am I really that desperate? "Gah! Too much pressure!"

Kenny's house is a dump with wooden planks from DIY projects of a bygone era littered around the front lawn, which is itself overgrown and unkempt, weeds burrowing out of the seemingly polluted soil in all directions. Up the cracked pathway, the door hangs loosely on its hinges as if someone had recently tried to force it open, and the surrounding windows are all either hideously stained (so that you can barely see inside even with the tattered, hole-ridden curtains) or shattered. When I had heard guys at school refer to Kenny's family as 'poor' or 'butt-broke', especially from the bigoted Cartman of all people, I always thought they were exaggerating. However, apparently, they were right.

I try the doorbell; it doesn't work. Regardless, the door is soon flung open and the vile stench of booze wafts out with such a pungent strength that I almost gag, stifling it instead into a light cough which still earns a look of confusion from the man who answered the door - presumably Kenny's father. He's dressed in a greasy denim jacket, faded from age, and equally gross jeans. Along with a mousy-brown moustache, he looks like your stereotypical Redneck.

"What do you want?"

"Gah! Is Kenny h-here?"

The man leads me through the house, past a living room with peeling walls, a carpet with some suspicious-looking stains on it, and a TV so old you could probably see it next to the first radio in a museum for early twentieth century electronics. The kitchen isn't much better: the American fridge/freezer unit hums obnoxiously as though it's on its last legs, the tiled flooring is cracked and covered in dirt, whilst a mountain of cutlery sits in the sink. As we pass through a few more rooms, all equally tatty, we finally arrive at a the house's back-room and the man leaves me to wait patiently as I knock on the closed door.

It opens slowly and cautiously, creaking on its probably rusted hinges, and I'm greeted by the welcoming sight of a smiling Kenny. He's standing there, an orange parka drooped loosely over his shoulders like some superhero's cape, but otherwise undressed and rubbing his eyes after having clearly just gotten out of bed. Said bed, if you can truly call it that, is just a decrepit mattress thrown across the centre of the floor with little care and surrounded by some empty scotch bottles. I hope at first that they aren't his, yet it's obvious that they could be no one else's, and so I instead sigh at the rotten mess I've gotten myself into. Kenny isn't a 'bad guy' per se, and I'm sure there's many back at school who'll vouch for him over Craig any day of the week, but that doesn't change the fact that we barely know each other. I walk into the room, catching whiff of the accompanying stench to the empty bottles and also sight of the blond teen's chosen décor: a series of scantily-clad women adorn the walls. In the days of internet pornography, it's an honest shock to still see pin-ups.

"You here for that," he groans tiredly, but still with an excited upwards inflation on the 'that'. "I don't know about Craig, man, but here... this is too early."

I stare upwards at the clock, unsurprised to find it broken like almost everything else in this house, and then instead pull out my phone to check the time.

"It's the afterno-"

"On a weekend," he quips, interrupting me. "You're here now though..."

Kenny removes the orange parka from his shoulders and, almost as if mirroring exactly my past perverted dreams, leads me over to the bed. Before I can even gather my senses, I'm falling. Thud! The springs of the mattress squeak unpleasantly under my weight and, as I examine the blond teenager standing before me, it becomes almost impossible not to admire his athletic build: broad shoulders, pronounced pectoral muscles, and an attractive amount of definition in his stomach from which luring tufts of hair lead down towards my target. I nervously grasp the primal, yearning muscle in one hand and, with some prompting from the randy boy opposite me, begin working.

 **. . .**

"Oh. Fuck! Tweek! Fuck," pants Kenny, soon collapsing atop my back as the proof of our enjoyment trickles slowly down my inner thigh. "That... was... good. No wonder Craig roots for your team."

Craig: the name alone is enough to make my heart twinge painfully in regret. I spin around on the spot, the cheap mattress groaning uncomfortably as I do so, and face the blond now slumped face-down at my side. He mumbles some gibberish into a pillow, as his eyes flutter blissfully, eventually closing fully in a euphoric post-sex sleep, and then I watch the Adam's apple bobbing peacefully in his neck. For someone with such an athletic body, almost gymnast-like even, Kenny sure is lazy. What's his secret?

Tugging my jeans over my legs, which dangle innocently off the edge of the mattress and stretch out across the dust-covered flooring, I sigh in disappointment - not at Kenny but at myself. We've barely been apart and, already like some sex-craving maniac, I've betrayed Craig. It's not right; I need to make it right.

 **. . .**

The Tucker house is far nicer than the dilapidated McCormick house, with windows which glow a welcoming, warm shade of yellow from the incandescence of the light bulbs inside - a luxury that Kenny's family can sadly ill afford. The pathway is neatly shovelled, cleared of autumnal leaves, frost or any other trash, and I force myself up it step by step. Step by step, twitch by twitch, my heart pounds with such sheer violence that it could erupt from my ribcage at any given moment. I knock at the door; there's no answer.

"Craig?"


	7. The End

Bullets Finale:

Craig's house is far nicer than Kenny's, even if the Tucker family is far from rich themselves. The lawn is neatly mown, almost country golf-house in style even, and there's not a scrap of rubbish to be seen. Meanwhile, inside of the house, lights glow warmly behind frosted windows and I'm certain I can hear the sound of welcoming laughter. With such pleasantness, why then am I so damn nervous? I'm shaking, trembling, wrapping my arms around myself in a vain attempt to hold my body still. I need a coffee, black caffeine to sate my nerves, but there's none to be had. Instead, with my heart racing as though it could erupt from my chest at any given minute, all I can do is slowly and cautiously approach the front door. This too, like everything else, is an improvement over Kenny's home. It sits neatly, properly as it should, within the confines of its frame. I'm positive that it's unlocked too, but given recent events I think I've lost the privilege to just enter unannounced, and so I knock. There's no answer. I knock again; still, there's no answer.

The doorknob spins with a click as I try it, indicating that it was indeed unlocked. However, as I open the door, I'm greeted not by the aromatic smell of Mrs Tucker's cooking but instead the pungent odour of alcohol. The place smells like a brewery; it's sickening. I step inside, examining some dubious stains on the floor, which are either alcohol themselves or the resulting vomit from it - neither good.

"Craig? Are y-you there?"

My body is almost convulsing now, as if I were having some photosensitive seizure, but I'm not. My stomach is cramping too, but I have to stay strong; something is clearly going on and Craig could be in danger.

With a large gulp of air, which doesn't help my nerves as much as I had hoped, I climb the first step of the staircase. Squeak! Then, gulping, the next step after that. Squeak! If Craig is here, surely he must have heard me by now? What if I've frightened him? What if he bursts from around the corner, thinking me a burglar and pushing me down the stairs, causing my head to crack and a pool of crimson red blood to smear itself everywhere? Oh fuck!

I arrive at Craig's door. There's definitely someone inside. I can hear breathing, heavy breathing, like you'd hear after sports class back at school. I open it.

"Craig!?"

It can't be; it simply can't be possible. My eyes must be broken. Perhaps the fumes from the alcohol had gotten to them, tricked them somehow, or maybe it was the stress. Either way, this can't be real! No!

David, with his milk chocolate skin and muscular torso, is sprawled across the bed in naught but socks. He's covered in all the proof I would need, but then I catch sight of Craig, still ignorant to my presence. They both reek of alcohol, but my boyfriend - no, David's boyfriend now - looks... pleased.

I need to get out. The air is stifling me, constricting my airways, and I can feel my chest tightening in response. I cough, then gag, clambering meekly at the empty space around me for air. Stumbling backwards, I make my way for the front doors. Squeak! Squeak! The stairs clunk underfoot, then the door opens with a thud, and I don't look back. I just run.

I run. The air buffets at my bare face, swooshing my hair in all directions, but none of that matters right now. I just need to be free, free from all this pressure and this worry. The world - no, just my world - is a mess. I cheated on Craig, my Craig, and now karma has seen fit to punish me. Gah! Why the fuck was I such an idiot?

There's a bridge nearby, quiet and remote - alluring even. It's high. A river swirls past underneath, likely filled with rocks, carved sharp like a knife by the torrent of water. It's perfect.

Darkness... no witnesses... edge of the bridge... just one step... then I'm free-falling... water everywhere... lungs bursting... a pain in my head... nothingness...


End file.
